


Slow, Slow and Steady

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's afraid of a lot of things. He knows that. But he's never been afraid of living before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow, Slow and Steady

Rodney can't remember a time when it's been this bad. Literally. Not when the Wraith were hovering over the city -- doesn't matter which time, all of them -- not when Koide decided to stage a coup and almost succeeded, hell, not even when he injected himself with that damned enzyme, rendering intelligence to uncontrollable gibberish. He can't even yell anymore, because he's ranted himself hoarse, voice lost to some nameless, formless ether, a reality he doesn't have a mirror to slip through, and even if he still had a voice, he doesn't have the _words_ anymore. There's too much anger, too much crap, too much build up like mold residue on an over-used bathtub and his mind's running down, a layer of filth obscuring his brilliance, and when he's not considering crying because there's nothing else he can do in a pathetic, juvenile way, he's contemplating suicide because if he can't think, and can't speak, and can't do anything but sit inside a tornado of _things_ , trapped in this forsaken apartment because going out the door is too difficult and there's no where to _go_ since everyone has banned him from everywhere until he gets some sleep, why the hell should he allow himself to continue at all?

It's over. Done. End program. His mind is broken and fractured and _useless_ , no one's afraid of him, no one will listen to him, and he can't even go to the bathroom without tripping on something lurking in wait. He's pretty sure most of the light bulbs are dead, too, but finding new ones requires going outside, where the evil, evil sun lives, and Rodney ashamed to admit that he's afraid.

He's afraid of a lot of things. He knows that. But he's never been afraid of _living_ before.

He'll sit here and starve to death, rotting in his own stink, a miserable failure of a man, a failure of a scientist, and a disgrace to everyone. It's fitting, in its own way. Justice.

A stack of papers that might be journals, might be the daily rag, tumble onto his lap. They've been piled too high, teetering dangerously for the last hour or so. Rodney stares at the dark ink on thick, grainy paper and wonders if he puts his face in it, if the fumes will suffocate him.

The door opening is like a revelation, complete with triumphant music, a swath of golden, heraldic light, and halos reflecting rainbows off of soft, pink clouds.

Then the door closes again. "Wow, McKay. They weren't kidding."

Rodney whimpers pathetically. It makes his throat hurt, shurikens dragging against delicate flesh, and it's all Ronon's fault he even knows what a shuriken is, even if that's not what Ronon called it, and hey, hands! Hands!

Those same hands that are hard but not hurting haul him to his feet and practically over a shoulder. "Okay, first thing we're doing is putting you to bed," a voice says, weirdly gentle in a way such a gravelly, rough voice shouldn't be. "I'd make you shower first, but I'm not letting anybody in there without a hazmat suit. So, you sleep, and I'll try and figure out when you went completely insane."

Oh, see, that's easy. Rodney knows that. He wants to tell this strange voice with its strong, solid body, but he's too busy wheezing as he's half-carried, half-pushed towards his bed. That's as disgusting as everything else, so the sheets are stripped off and a blanket is produced from _somewhere_ \-- possibly the same unknown reality his voice has skipped off to -- and Rodney bounces three times when he hits the newly-blanketed mattress, whimpering louder each time.

Cool fingers push back his hair from his forehead -- hey, wait, he needs that, he knows he's going bald thank you, it's not his fault, it's _genetics_ , damn his mother's family anyway -- then caress the side of his face. "I kinda want to be mad at you. It'd be easier. But I think you managed to make everyone else mad first. Before they started getting scared, anyway."

That makes no sense, none of this does, and Rodney wants to fight, wants to turn fingers that don't really respond right into claws that will rend and tear and force this strange apparition to come clean, to clear out and leave him to his misery. But he can't, and the apparition stays, and Rodney sleeps without ever meaning to.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he's aware of is that he can't smell. Specifically, he can't smell the stench of unwashed human living in an unwashed house for a significant amount of time. It scares him, a little. As horrible as it'd been, the reality of his own dirt had been comforting.

The bed he lays on dips, Rodney sliding towards the indentation. "Hey, you awake this time?"

Blinking. Rodney can do blinking, because it's pretty much the only thing he _can_ do right then. "Huh?"

"Oh, right, here." Something hot and steamy and smelling -- hey, he _can_ smell! -- of mint is pressed to his mouth. He swallows reflexively, trying not to whimper at the burn in his throat, but he does anyway, and a cool hand is instantly there, cupping the outside where he's not raw or sore, but somehow that translates into help because the next swallow is easier. "Better? I think I made it right. Some of her directions were kinda weird."

Weird? Weird is realizing that the bed you're lying on is made, and you feel relatively clean, the sweat all wiped away except from your forehead because that always feels oily and gross even right out of the shower, and the flashes of scenery you're getting in between frantic scuttling back behind the darkness of your own eyes shows a room that's clear, the carpet spotless and blue, instead of covered in papers like a flat-sheeted snow storm. That's weird.

There's a shuffle and if Rodney could squeak, he would. Since he can't he makes hard, painful sounds as his body is rearranged and oh -- oh, oh, _oh_. He's lying on something hard, but warm and giving if he digs his cheek in the right way, absorbing the drool he can't really help when he's lying on his side like this, a solid, warm _mass_ concaving against the back of his head and his neck, before convexing and taking all that precious, precious heat away, and there's a hand. He's sure it's a hand, stroking over his face and picking up the oil and transferring it to his neck, which is tight where the concaving-convexing something isn't, before skimming over his shoulder and arm and hip and leg before returning to do everything over again.

"You're never allowed to do this again, McKay," the voice says, hard and authoritative and Rodney feels it in his bones. "Never. For christ sake -- why didn't you _tell_ someone you were getting sick? And not the bullshit hypochondria stuff. You know better."

He wants to curl up, shriveling under the weight of the voice, but it feels so _good_ to lie here in this position, being touched and touching, because he discovers he's got his arms wrapped around a knee and a calf, pulling both at an awkward angle that's not complained about at all, bringing it closer to his chest and oh, god, he's _cuddling_ someone's _leg_.

Not someone.

"Your house is clean, although we may still have to fumigate. I'll book us a hotel as soon as you're well enough, but god _dammit_ , Rodney!"

Not someone, but John Sheppard who's supposed to be gone, gone away without telling Rodney _again_ , the final straw on a humped back and Rodney doesn't care how pathetic he is, he buries his face in John's leg and holds on.

"Hey, buddy," he hears over his own noises, tattooing skin that rises up, as desperate for this as a desert for rain. "Hey, buddy, I'm back. It's okay. We're gonna get you cleaned up and well again, and then I'm gonna kick your ass for being such a _shit_."

Rodney nods, his nose rubbing hard against denim. That's fair, he can totally accept that, because if John's kicking his ass and giving him the silent, I-am-a-military-commander-so- _shut up_ glare, that means he's _here_ , and everything's okay again.

"Don't you ever scare me like this again, Rodney," is whispered over his head like a benediction. "Not ever the fuck again. Jesus. But it's okay, now. It's okay, buddy. I'm right here."

For the first time in three weeks, Rodney exhales until his lungs are flattened and shriveled and empty, sure that there'll be nothing but clean air when he inhales again.


End file.
